Happily Ever After
by Cameron Dial
Summary: This started out as an expanded scene from Season Four's "Till Death."


Happily Ever After  
by Cameron Dial 

Disclaimer: "Highlander" and its associated names, trademarks and characters are the property   
of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc., which reserves all copyrights. This story is

for entertainment purposes only. No monetary compensation is received by the author.

No copyright infringement is intended.

_I know it's their sandbox. I just dropped by to play._

_This started out as a missing scene from "Till Death," an episode written by Michael A. Mahoney_

_and__ Sacha Reins (story by Beatrice Mathouret). Then I figured I'd add some_

_background__ so people would have a bit of context. Honest, that's all I had in mind._

_The novelization just sort of happened._

Methos slouched even deeper into the cushions of MacLeod's couch, holding up a chocolate brown mug. Mac filled it and then his own from a tea pot while Methos kept a tight rein on the half-smile that was threatening. Ever since he had returned from an annoying and fruitless morning of apartment-hunting, MacLeod had been building up to something--in fact, the Scot had practically ambushed him with tea and biscuits the moment he'd walked through barge's door. He'd been helping himself to a piece of shortbread when Mac hit him with the request.   
"It's finally happened," Methos replied. "You've lost your mind."   
"Come on, Methos. You'd be doing them an incredible favor."   
"Read my lips. N. O."   
"Okay!" MacLeod said. "You'd be doing _me _a favor. Milk?" he asked, practically beaming.   
"Oh, now that's not fair," Methos groused. "You're making it personal now. You think that I'll feel guilty when I say no?"   
"Sugar?" If possible, the wattage that lit MacLeod's face had gone up another notch.   
"You're wasting your time," Methos advised him. "I haven't felt guilt since the eleventh century. I don't even _know_ these people!"   
"Yeah, well, that's why I'm asking you." MacLeod seemed to think Methos should be impressed with the logic of his plan.   
Methos appeared unimpressed.   
"All you have to do is_ act _a little," Mac insisted.   
"Do I look like an actor?" Methos asked, sounding offended. As a matter of fact, he _had_ been an actor a time or two over the past 5,000 years--hell, he'd been just about everything over the past 5,000 years--but MacLeod didn't need to know that.   
"Well--you've been with the Watchers for years," Mac said, "and no one's suspected you." He'd obviously been anticipating that objection, too, and had his reasons all lined up, like ducks in a row. Of course, Methos would be just as happy to shoot his reasons _down_ for him, like ducks in a row. MacLeod, in the meantime, had turned the wattage up again and was practically pleading with him now. "Don't you want to see Gina and Robert live happily ever after?" he wheedled, shoving the plate of shortbread in Methos' direction.   
The old man shrugged, snagging a cookie before Mac could notice the smile had slipped just a bit. "Yeah," Methos said. "But I want to see _me_ live happily ever after even more."   
"Oh, come _on_, Methos!" MacLeod snorted. He pushed off the couch impatiently and grabbed his mug, almost sloshing hot tea as he moved. Just as impatiently, he set the mug down and snatched an antique leather map case from the credenza behind the couch. "They won't even know who you _are_," he insisted dramatically. A new idea occurred to him and his eyes lit with potential. "You'll just be this _mysterious immortal_ who's coming after Robert's head--"   
Methos rolled his eyes and permitted himself a chuckle. _Oh, yeah, MacLeod, like that's going to convince me._   
"Robert and Gina's marriage is in your hands!"   
Shaking his head, Methos pushed himself up on his right elbow and sat up, looking over the back of the couch at Mac. "You're not _listening_ to me," he told the younger man. "I don't give a _damn_ about their marriage."   
"Well, I do!"   
"Is it really that important to you?" Methos asked.   
"Yes, it's that important to me!" To emphasize the point, Mac bopped him on the head with the map case   
"Okay," Methos said. "I do this for you . . . and you give me the barge."   
MacLeod laughed, of course. Still, pinned by Methos' gaze, it was hard not to squirm just a bit. "Right," he said. "Like you're serious." He looked like a man who had just become aware there might be sharks in the water.   
"Yeah, I'm serious," Methos shot back.   
_Damn. Nobody could do deadpan like Methos._   
"Hey," Methos pointed out, "I need a place to live." MacLeod's eyes were still on him, of course, so he closed in for the kill. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."   
MacLeod opened his mouth once--to protest?--and then closed it.   
Methos didn't even bother to hide the smile this time.   
Mac stood there, hesitating, half-hoping Methos would say it was a joke, break into laughter--something . . . _nothing_.   
Methos watched as the Scot stood still--stubbornly--bound by that iron-clad honor of his. Well, they said true friendship was a rare jewel at whatever the cost, didn't they? And Robert and Gina had been his friends for almost 300 years. Methos estimated it took MacLeod less than three heartbeats to make his decision. If he hadn't suspected manipulation, he'd no doubt have conceded faster.   
"Fine," MacLeod said, determined to put a good face on it. "If that's what it takes."   
"That's what it takes," Methos said cheerfully.   
"Fine."   
"Good."   
"Good."   
"Right."   
Tea mug gripped firmly in one hand, Mac had plopped himself down on the arm of the couch. It would be too demeaning to ask if "the barge" included all of its furnishings as well. "You'd better make it look good--" MacLeod growled, wagging a forefinger in Methos' face.   
"Like you say, darling, I'm an actor--"   
"Oh, _good,_" Mac responded sarcastically. Less than certain now of his own little deal with the devil, he took a big gulp of tea rather than look around at the barge he'd just bargained away. He burned his tongue, of course. Whoever said "better a devil you know than a devil you don't" obviously hadn't known Methos.

"Blackbeard, Bluebeard, Drake--" punctuating each name with a swipe of his sword, Robert de Valicourt was treating Methos to a recitation of his glory days with the brethren of the coast. "I must have sailed with half the pirates in the Caribbean," he concluded, looking a bit nostalgic for the good old days. "I kind of miss those old ships," he commented.   
"Not me," Methos said. He worked his hands into the black leather gloves he'd had stashed in his coat pocket and commented peevishly, "I hate the sea."   
"Oh? Why's that?"   
Methos made a face. "I crossed the Atlantic to Iceland with a bunch of Irish monks in 765," he said. "Six of us in a rowboat with no facilities."   
"Ooh."   
Whatever else Robert was going to say was swallowed up the ring of _presence_ that was approaching; his words forgotten, Robert looked around, trying to identify where the tell-tale immortal signatures were coming from. Methos, quicker to identify the source and its direction, had already turned to his left--within seconds MacLeod's black Citroen appeared on the concourse below them and Gina had thrown open the passenger's door, bright as a cardinal in the snow in her red coat.   
The audience had arrived.   
"Show time," Methos and Robert chorused quietly.   
"Leave him alone, you bastard!" MacLeod beside her now, Gina shouted the words up at Methos over the clash and ring of steel on steel.   
They'd chosen the perfect stage for the fight, two flights up in the decimated structure, close enough to the edge for the contest to look real but high enough up to allow them to pull their blows if need be. Robert, unfortunately for Methos, had the added incentive of performing for his lady-love, who was dashing up the stairs at that very moment; it meant that Methos had to block a bit more realistically than he'd planned when the smitten de Valicourt's adrenaline surge got the better of him. As the two "combatants" closed, their blades slid together until their fists were locked close on the entangled hilts and Methos hissed, "It goes 'hip, head, hip, thrust, jump back,' "   
De Valicourt blinked once, then nodded, coloring slightly as he realized he'd been improvising rather than following their pre-arranged staging. "Yes, of course," he answered. "Sorry."   
"Gina!" MacLeod was shouting below them as he and Gina de Valicourt pounded up the metal stairs from the ground floor.   
Success writ large on his face, Robert's grin was not exactly what one normally wore in the middle of a heated sword fight. Still, Methos thought, you could hardly blame the guy, with a woman like Gina ready to throw herself into his arms. And speaking of Gina--   
"Gina, you can't interfere! Gina, wait!" MacLeod shouted.   
She rounded the last flight of stairs, Mac a close second behind her. He snatched the sleeve of her red coat just in time, anchoring her to the landing less than a dozen yards from Methos and Robert, shouting, "Gina, no!"   
"He could lose his head!" Gina shouted, struggling to get free.   
"If he does it'll be the last thing that guy sees!" MacLeod swore.   
"That should do it," Robert grunted into Methos' ear as they collided yet again, swords ringing. "Give me a jab, not too deep."   
Methos grinned ferally. "Wuss," he accused, working his sword arm free of Robert's restraint. After all--the whole idea was to make Gina believe he was a legitimate threat to her beloved Robert, wasn't it? "Where's your sense of drama?" he asked, plunging the blade into Robert's all-too-exposed abdomen. He met de Valicourt's eyes--simultaneously hurt and accusing--and grimaced, realizing that Robert wasn't the only one who had gotten carried away with the performance. Automatically taking Robert's weight with his own, Methos braced them both as Gina screamed in reaction. _Well, what goes in must come out._ "Sorry," Methos muttered, and had the decency to wince with Robert as he jerked the sword out.   
Free of the impaling sword and Methos' supporting arm, Robert crumpled to the floor.   
As if on cue, MacLeod released Gina, who rushed forward, MacLeod pursuing Methos as Gina sank to the floor, Robert in her arms. Clutching her husband's body to her own, Gina murmured apologies to Robert, assuring him over and over of her love. "I'll never leave you, Robert," she said fiercely, glaring at Methos. "Never."   
"Oh, Gina--" Robert sighed.   
_Oh, Gina? _Methos had known lionesses who weren't that protective of their cubs. He shot MacLeod a warning glare and beat a hasty retreat, leaving MacLeod hovering over Robert and Gina like a nervous wet nurse.   
"He's gone," MacLeod announced. "Gina scared him off. I don't think we'll see him again." He raised a conspirator's eyebrow at Robert, but Gina looked up at him, Methos' death shining in her eyes.   
"I'm going to find that bastard and take his head if it's the last thing I do," Gina said.   
MacLeod met her eyes and managed a shaky smile. He'd been afraid she was going to say that.

Two days later Methos showed up at the barge again, less than happy but hardly surprised to learn that Gina de Valicourt was, indeed, swearing revenge. Squaring off with MacLeod in the newly designated office space the Highlander had made for himself in the barge, Methos shook his head. "I knew it!" he snapped. "Getting between a married couple . . . it's a rule I haven't broken for 2,000 years. I _knew_ this would happen."   
"Look, she'll cool off," MacLeod said. "I'm just telling you to be careful, that's all."   
"Great," Methos replied. "So I lose my head after 5,000 years so that you can play marriage guidance counselor. I must have been out of my mind!"   
"Oh, come on, Methos," Mac protested. "The marriage is in two days' time." He watched as Methos threw himself into one of the leather chairs he'd just bought, wisely refraining from comment when the old man automatically threw a long leg over the chair arm. "All you have to do is lay low for a while. They'll go off on their honeymoon, they'll be there for . . . ten years," he predicted, shrugging expansively. "She'll forget all about this."   
Predictably, Methos wasn't impressed. "Stake your life on that, would you?" he demanded, looking MacLeod in the eye.   
"Well, yeah," Mac lied. Unable to hold the other's gaze convincingly, he turned away.   
"Okay," Methos said, holding out his hand. "Give me the keys."   
MacLeod turned, his face blank for a moment. "What keys?"   
"The keys to the barge."   
Laughing, MacLeod loosened his ponytail from his shirt collar. "You weren't serious," he said. "You were testing me."   
Methos still had his hand out. "Nope," he said. "If I'm going to die, you're going to pay me for it."   
"I can't give you the barge!" MacLeod sputtered. "I've just redecorated!"   
"Nice job," Methos said. "Give me the keys."   
Mac stared at him for a moment, unbelieving. _He's actually going to do this to me._   
"Come on," Methos prompted.   
Automatically, habitually, MacLeod touched his palms to his coat pockets, looking for his keys. Glancing down, he found them sitting on a stack of papers on the corner of his desk--his _new _desk. Picking the keys up, he squeezed his hand around them momentarily and then tossed them at Methos. "With friends like you, who needs enemies?" he asked.   
"I was just thinking the same thing," Methos said, catching the keys. "Hey, hey, hey, hey--off!"   
"What? It's my chair."   
"_My_ chair," Methos corrected.   
The old man pulled it out from the desk and plopped himself down. Then, purely out of spite, MacLeod was sure, he crossed his arms over his chest and put his booted feet up on the desk to claim his property. _Well, that answered the question about furniture, at least._   
It also left MacLeod sputtering inarticulately in protest, mutely pointing to Methos' hiking boots on top of the desk. _His_ desk.   
"You know where the door is," Methos said.   
MacLeod grabbed a stack of papers at random and headed for the stern.   
"Have a _nice_ day!" Methos called after him.   
It was probably best that MacLeod didn't see the look of wicked glee on his friend's face at the moment.

Dispossessed of house and home--well, barge and home, anyway--MacLeod wound up at Chateau de Valicourt, where Robert treated him first to an excellent burgundy and then to an account of how well everything had worked out between himself and Gina. "You saved my marriage, Duncan," he said expansively. "I don't know how I'm going to thank you enough, you and your friend Pierson." He winced just a bit, remembering the sword he'd received through his gut just 48 hours before, and admitted, "He didn't have to try quite so hard, though."   
"Yeah," MacLeod said, "but it worked." It was a fine line to tread, being happy for one friend and simultaneously so annoyed at another.   
"Ah, Mac, you should have seen her," Robert said, winking. Settling back onto the couch, he smiled, remembering the last two nights with his wife. "She was an _animal_," he confided with a grin._ "_It turned her on so much that night she, uh . . . " Words failed him, and at the same time it occurred to him that there were certain things that--as much as he liked MacLeod--were best not shared even with one's best friend. It faded into a chuckle as he sipped his wine and settled for saying, "We may have to try this again sometime."   
"Forget it," Mac said firmly, unable even to imagine going through the past few days again. "So, where's Gina?" he asked.   
A bit sheepishly, Robert admited they'd had another argument.   
"Ah, not again," MacLeod said. "What now?"   
"Well, I wanted you to be my best man, and she wanted you to give her away."   
MacLeod sipped his wine and shook his head. "Look," he said, "tell her either way is fine with me."   
"You can tell her yourself," Robert promised, "once she gets back from your place."   
"My place?" MacLeod asked, choking on his wine abruptly. He grabbed Robert's arm and hauled his started host off the couch without explanation. "Come on!"

Among the new additions Mac had made to the barge there was a wet bar complete with stainless steel stools in the far corner of the living area and a new entertainment rack bolted to the wall. Set up opposite the office area, it included a turn table, multiple CD changer, sound-surround speakers, and an assortment of various other electronic toys. At the moment, Methos was browsing through the Scot's CD collection. "Opera," he said, slipping one plastic jewel case behind the other. "Opera, opera, opera . . . hmm. Got a lot of opera here." As a matter of fact, that was about _all _he could find among the stacked CD cases. He'd obviously been neglecting MacLeod's education in the finer things in life. "I'm going to have to do something about this music," he muttered. "There's no Springsteen, no Queen . . . "   
There was, however, a growing sense of another Immortal quite nearby, and he turned to find Gina slipping silently down the half dozen stairs into the living area, her sword drawn and ready for battle.   
"You!" she seethed.   
Method edged sideways into the office, automatically placing the couch and the credenza between himself and Gina's sword. "I can explain," he offered. "It was a joke."   
"I'm not laughing."   
_ Nope, most definitely not laughing. _The spark in those nearly black eyes was undeniably attractive, though, and it was easy to see why both MacLeod and de Valicourt were so obviously smitten with the lady. That beside the point, he'd stuck his sword upright between two couch cushions for the sole purpose of annoying MacLeod when the Scot returned home, and at the moment it was about as unattainable to him as Excalibur, waiting for the true King of England to free it from its resting place. _Damn MacLeod anyway._   
"Where is MacLeod?" Gina demanded. "Dead?"   
"No!" Methos protested. "This has all just been a big mistake."   
"Huge," Gina agreed. "And you made it when you tried to kill my husband."   
"I knew this would happen," Methos muttered. He threw himself head first over the credenza, grabbing for his sword as Gina brought her blade down where his vulnerable neck had been the barest split second before. Gina's blade slid across his undeniably awkward parry as he came to ground, yelping, "It was all MacLeod's idea!"   
He got his feet beneath him and stood in front of the small fireplace, using the angle of his blade against hers to shove her away from him as she charged. She gave less than a foot of ground before attacking him again, but it was enough. He'd secured a two handed grip on the Ivanhoe--enough to show her he meant business this time--and held her off long enough to growl, "For heaven's sake, would you just listen? It was your friend MacLeod's idea! MacLeod's and Robert's!"   
"You tried to _kill _Robert!"   
"No, we wanted to make it _look_ like I was trying to kill Robert! It was all a . . . " he hesitated, not willing to use the word "joke" again, not about something that so obviously mattered to her. "It was all very carefully staged," he said. Well, maybe not _that_ carefully staged, but at least he had her attention now. "Look--Robert was afraid you were going to leave him. And MacLeod--well, he had this idea . . . "   
Saints be praised--he'd always liked intelligent women. He saw the idea light in her eyes, knew she'd not only leaped ahead of him, but had already weighed the variables involved and realized he was telling the truth.   
"Keep talking," she said.   
Five minutes later they had their own little drama worked out, and were watching with amusement through a porthole as MacLeod and Robert arrived in Mac's car, tires squealing on the quay.   
"This is a mess," Robert said as they spilled out of the car and slammed the doors shut. "Would he hurt her?"   
"Would she go for his head?" MacLeod asked in turn.   
"Yes, she would."   
_Oh, God._   
As they ran toward the barge another wash of Immortal presence hit them, and Gina appeared, her face tired and drawn as she walked down the gangplank toward them. "It's over," she said. "The son of a bitch is dead."   
"You took his head?" MacLeod gaped, not knowing what else to say as a wave of disbelief rolled through him.   
"He tried for Robert," Gina said simply. Then, as if it explained everything: "He tried to kill the man I love." She gestured vaguely with her sword, indicating the barge. "Sorry about the mess in there," she said.   
Mac stared first at Gina, then at Robert. "No!" he shouted. "No, no, no, no! It was all an act," he jabbered. "Robert--tell her!" _Not that it would make any difference. _He froze then as yet another presence sliced through his awareness and Methos appeared on deck, grinning down at them.   
"You--" Mac blurted. He glared at Methos, then at Gina. They were both starting to laugh. "Not funny!" MacLeod said.   
"Oh, I don't know," Methos countered. "Pretty funny from here . . . "   
"Oh, really?" MacLeod demanded. "Maybe I ought to take _your_ head instead," he suggested, clearing the gangplank in a few strides. Laughing, Methos was prudently backing away from him, hands out in protest. "How about that?" MacLeod asked him. "Would you like that?"   
"Relax, Duncan!" Gina said, leading Robert up the gangplank. "Can't you take a joke?" she asked as Methos raised both eyebrows at him.   
"I guess_ Fitz_ would have found it funny," MacLeod acknowledged reluctantly, shooting another look at Methos. Of course, _Fitz_ had found almost anything funny, as long as it was at MacLeod's expense. _Just like somebody else he knew._   
"So," Gina asked him, "are you going to give me away at my wedding?"   
"No," MacLeod said shortly.   
"Oh, _please_, Duncan!" Gina said, giving him her best pout. "_Please_?"   
Duncan rolled his eyes. "Oh, all right," he conceded. He grabbed her abruptly, making her squeal as he pulled her into a mock passionate embrace. For just a moment he was tempted to drop her on the deck, figuring it might teach her a lesson or two--of course, that would still leave him with one more smart aleck to deal with, and Methos didn't strike him as the repentant type. "Take her," he said, and she laughed as he swung her into Robert's arms. He'd have to figure out a way to get even with the two of them another time and hope it didn't backfire on him. "Go on, for God's sake."   
Laughing, Robert caught her and hugged her close. _ Take her? For as long as she'd have him._

        It was later in the day that MacLeod's wedding present to Robert and Gina arrived at the barge by special courier. Not even bothering to ask for Methos' help, MacLeod lugged it inside and started unpacking the case, deliberately scattering as much packaging straw on the office floor as he could in the process.   
"Hey!" Methos shouted at him from the bedroom. "Enough with the mess! I have to live here."   
"Oh, I'm sorry," MacLeod responded, sounding anything but apologetic. He held up a large vase with pleasure. "My wedding present to them," he announced with satisfaction. "One of only six left in the world."   
Methos snorted. "When I was living in China way back when," he said, "those things were a dime a dozen." He shook his head. "If only I'd known then what I know now."   
"Pity," MacLeod said coldly. He couldn't resist digging in the knife. "So, what are you going to get them?" he asked. "A toaster?"   
"No," Methos said slowly, "I was thinking of something more unique."   
"Yeah? Like what?"   
"My boat."   
MacLeod looked appalled. "The barge?" he demanded. "You can't give them the barge!"   
"Why not?" Methos asked, pulling the keys out of his jeans pocket. "It's my boat. I'll do what I like with it."   
MacLeod stared at him, not even beginning to know what to say to that. "Fine," he snapped at last. It was bad enough to have lost the barge to Methos, but now the man wanted to turn it into some sort of a hand-me-down wedding present! He started scattering straw with a vengeance, too busy to notice the smile Methos was hiding as he moved into the living area. "But then I figured that probably _everyone_ would give them something unique," Methos said slowly, "so I went with a toaster."   
He tossed the keys to MacLeod, who reached reflexively to snatch them out of the air, losing his grip on the vase at the same time. It crashed to the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.   
"You--"   
"You keep the barge," Methos said. "I hate the water." On his way out, he tossed the Highlander the broom. "You've really got a mess there, MacLeod," he commented. "Better get it cleaned up."   
"What . . . I . . . you--" Alternately staring at the shattered vase on the floor and the door through which Methos had disappeared, it was some minutes before MacLeod became any more coherent. When he finally did, it occurred to him that a toaster wasn't such a bad idea after all. 

The End

  
  



End file.
